


A Night At The Catalina

by mimosa-supernova (FourCatProductions)



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1940s, F/M, Ghost Stories, Paranormal, Romance, Short Story, Urban Legends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-15 21:06:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18677398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions/pseuds/mimosa-supernova
Summary: One night, on his way home from his mother's house in the country, George Weber stops to give a ride to a young woman stranded on the side of the road. In return, she offers a night unlike any other.





	A Night At The Catalina

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DesertVixen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertVixen/gifts).



Evening falls, and in the distance, the city shimmers like a mirage. It might as well be – he still has many miles to go, out here on the winding country roads that twist and tarry, a black ribbon cutting through fields of green. The first stars are just emerging, freckled silver in a ripe peach-plum sky. George rolls his window down and breathes it all in. The wind caresses his fresh-shaven cheeks. He always shaves before he goes to visit his mother. She complains otherwise that he looks like a bum, that he’ll never find a wife hiding such a handsome face; in return, he brings her gifts, food and delicacies from the city, new dresses and fragrant soaps, and pesters her about hiring some of the local boys as farmhands.

 _The place is too big for you to run on your own,_ he says.

 _I did just fine with you,_ she counters.

This is the rhythm of their visits. He shaves, she pretends she’ll think about it, and then they both revert to their old ways the second his car pulls out of the driveway. He has a vague idea of moving back home when it gets to be too much for her, someday – she’s a proud woman, his mother, but not too proud to accept help from her own son.

Not yet, though. Not yet.

The radio goes fuzzy, music fading in and out, mixed with static. He reaches over and fiddles with the dial until he finds a working station. Swing music bubbles out of the speakers, brassy and bright, and he drums his fingers on the steering wheel, humming along even though he doesn’t know the words. It’s a perfect fall evening, cool and crisp with a fat amber moon rising overhead, and for an impulsive moment he wishes he had plans, or friends he could call up when he got back into town to go do something. It seems a shame to waste a night like this at home. He’s debating if he should go out on his own when something catches his eye, a bone-white flicker of movement at the edge of his headlights. He brakes on reflex, tires squealing against the asphalt, and throws his high-beams on. Nothing. The road is empty, silent but for the purr of his engine and the music. He shakes his head. Probably a skunk or a possum, or even a barn cat – they run wild in the country. Nothing to worry about.

There’s a knock at the window.

George has never considered himself a coward. He doesn’t fear death or the dark, doesn’t believe in spirits or urban legends. But that knock nearly sends him out of his seat, heart pounding, and he feels all the more foolish for it when he turns his head to discover it’s only a woman. She motions for him to roll his window down, pale face distorted by the glass, and after a moment’s hesitation, he complies. She’s only a woman, after all.

“Thank God you stopped,” she says without preamble, and there’s a lilt to her words he can’t quite place. “I’m awfully sorry to trouble you, but you’re the first person I’ve seen drive by all evening.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” George says, because his mother would have his hide if he left an innocent soul stranded on a country road. “Are you alright? Did your car break down?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” The woman has a heart-shaped face and thick, dark curls tumbling over one shoulder, and when she leans in he can see she’s all dressed up for a night on the town, a delicate champagne-colored wrap draped around her elbows. “I’m afraid my date and I had a falling out on our way to the Catalina, and he left me here. Said I could walk the rest of the way.” She shivers and gives him a rueful smile. “He wasn’t nearly the gentleman he made himself out to be.”

“He _left_ you here?” George asks, appalled. “We’re a half-hour outside the city!”

“You’re telling me.” She tucks a stray curl behind her ear. A little golden stud glitters in the lobe. “What do you say, mister? You willing to help a girl out?”

George pops the locks by way of a response, because he can’t imagine a world in which he’d be able to live with himself if he doesn’t, and leans over to open the door. She comes crowding into the passenger seat in a cloud of perfume and green crinoline, full skirt tangling around her hips, and she’s still shivering, shawl pulled tight. Before the impulse is even fully-formed, George finds himself stripping off his coat, which he hands to her before she can so much as say a word in protest. “Here. You look like you could use this more than me.”

The woman hesitates, fabric piled on her lap, but there’s a hint of a smile playing around her mouth when she says, “I don’t usually wear a man’s coat before we’ve been properly introduced.”

He sticks out his hand. “George Weber.”

“Nancy.” Her hand is soft and cool in his. “Nancy O’Connell. Try anything funny and I’ll blind you. I have a bottle of perfume in my clutch.” She’s smiling for real now, though, and her lips are pink and her eyes are grey and George can’t exactly find it in himself to be offended. He puts the car in drive, and it lurches forward, back onto the road.

“On my honor.” He raises one hand, then puts it back on the wheel. “No funny business.”

“You certainly have more of that than Julian,” Nancy says, and puts his jacket on, folding her wrap. “Honor, I mean, not funny business. Considering we just met, that’s something of an accomplishment.”

“Your date?”

“If you can call him that.” She sniffs. “I only went out with him to make my parents happy. Our fathers work together.”

“Ah,” George says, feeling a pang of empathy. He’d gone on his fair share of mother-approved blind dates, none of which had ended with the promise of a second. “Been there.”

She gives him a sly look. “Does your father set you up with a lot of his friends’ sons?”

“Wh – no! I meant my mom does the same thing.” He rubs the back of his neck. His skin is hot with embarrassment under his palm. “Almost thirty, and she’s still trying to set me up with a ‘nice young lady’ no matter how many times I tell her not to bother.”

“I see,” Nancy says, and she sounds more sympathetic this time, voice softer. “At least none of them left you on the side of the road, I hope.”

“Not yet, but there’s always the next one.” They both chuckle, a little awkward. She has a nice laugh, he thinks, shy but genuine. “I don’t mean to rag on my mom. I know she means well. She just has certain ideas about how I should live my life.” This time, he’s the only one who laughs. “Sorry. I don’t know why I told you that.”

“My father’s the same way. Don’t apologize.” She tilts her face to the window, watching the silver-blue countryside roll past. “He probably won’t make me go out with Julian again after this, so that’s something.”

“I’d hope not.”

“If you knew my father, you’d – oh, I _love_ this song. Do you mind?”

“Go ahead,” he says, and she reaches over, turning the dial until music he doesn’t recognize fills the car, the singer crooning over a swell of big band instrumentals. Neither of them speaks after that, and Nancy hums along under her breath, one high-heeled foot bobbing in time with the beat. She looks much more at ease than she had when she first got in the car, swimming in his coat with her cheeks gone pink, and George clears his throat.

“It’s funny, the way these things work out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, see, I was supposed to visit my mother last weekend, but my car was in the shop with a busted radiator, so I didn’t get it back until yesterday. And if that hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have been driving by when you needed a ride.” Life was full of little coincidences like that. Even just thinking about how differently things could have played out, and the countless events that had aligned to bring him into the here and now, is enough to make him dizzy sometimes. He doubts it means anything, but it’s comforting to think that the universe has a plan for him, even if it’s one he doesn’t always understand. “Not that someone else wouldn’t have helped you, but… you know.”

“Why, Mr. Weber,” Nancy says, and the sly smile is back, hovering just in the corner of his vision. “Are you saying you enjoy my company?”

“More than I enjoy the company of your average hitchhiker,” he dares, and is gratified to hear her laugh.

“Oh? Do you pick up a lot of hitchhikers?”

“No, but I might have to start if they’re all as charming as you are.”

She swats his arm lightly, eyes sparkling. “Flatterer. I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Only the ones who threaten to spray perfume in my eyes.”

“If only all my dates found that so attractive.”

“Am I your date now?” He’s half-joking, but his heart still stutters when she twists in her seat to give him a contemplative look, one polished fingernail tapping her lower lip.

“Maybe,” she says softly. “If you play your cards right.”

 

A half-hour’s drive never seemed so long, or felt so short all at once. They trade details of their lives like baseball cards while the countryside unfurls and the city lights grow brighter, drawing them in. She has sisters and he’s an only child; neither of them could afford college; he’s from the country and she grew up in the city; he likes to read and she goes out dancing nearly every weekend.

“You’ve really never been to the Catalina? Tell me you’re joking.”

“No, I, uh… don’t get out much,” he admits. “I was living down south for the last few years, shrimping on the gulf. Just moved back. What’s the Catalina?”

“Oh, it’s killer-diller. Swankiest dance hall in town.” She gives him a once-over, taking in his cheap suit pants and plain button-up, tie hanging loose around his neck. He’d gone straight to his mom’s after his job interview. “Don’t sweat it. We’ll get you all spruced up before we go in. No one’ll look twice.”

It takes him a second to parse her meaning – he’s still stuck on ‘killer-diller’. “Wait. You… you want me to come with you?”

“Why not?” She folds her hands primly in her lap. “Do you have other plans?”

“Well, no, but…”

“But what?” There’s a challenge behind her words now, eyes bright as she twists to face him in her seat, and he knows right then that he’s screwed, that he’s going whether he likes it or not, and she knows it too, judging by her expression. It’d be a shame, to be cooped up at home on a night like this.

“But nothing, I guess,” he says, and she claps her hands together, grin splitting her face in two.

“We’re going to have a swell time. Just you wait and see.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he jokes, mostly to hide his sudden bout of nerves. Nancy’s face doesn’t change.

“I always keep my promises,” she says.

 

Having grown up in the country, George doesn’t quite trust the city. It’s a strange and unknowable beast that lures people in and spits the husks back out when it’s done, but not him, not a chance. Brightly-colored animals were often a warning, his mother taught him as a child, and this is no exception. _Watch out for poison._ But despite his misgivings, he can acknowledge its beauty too – the brick-and-mortar giants dividing the skyline, the elegant architecture, the dizzying rainbow of lights that blossoms when night falls. It’s especially something tonight, autumn leaves blanketing the sidewalk and drifting by on a cool breeze as Nancy directs him into the heart of downtown. Reds and golds and blues burst all around them, rippling across the windows and washing her in primary colors, and it’s suddenly harder to keep his eyes on the road than it should be.

“Park here.” She points to an empty spot, parallel between the cars lining the side of the road. “We can walk the rest of the way.”

“How much farther is it?”

“Just a couple blocks.”

They park. George opens her door for her. It just feels like the right thing to do. In turn, she links arms with him as they stroll, and he’s seized with a surge of protectiveness for this woman he barely knows, this funny, old-fashioned girl. Her previous date was a fool, and he allows himself a brief and vicious satisfaction before she leans into him like she can sense his thoughts, bumping his shoulder with hers. Her hair smells like flowers. Buildings drift by on either side. In the distance, lights glitter, hazy and honey-sweet.

“Nearly there,” Nancy murmurs, heels clicking briskly on the pavement. They round the corner, and George gets his first glimpse of the Catalina.

How strange, to think he could live in the same city and not have known such a place existed! It lights up the block and pours diamonds into the sky, dazzling silver and regal gold bathing its enormous frame; it’s like something out of a movie, watching swaths of well-dressed bodies enter its double glass doors, ushered in by valets in white suits. Even more warmth pours from the interior, flooding the promenade, and he doesn’t realize that he’s stopped until Nancy lets go of his arm and turns to face him, adjusting his tie.

“Hell of a place,” he manages, and she beams.

“Isn’t it just? Here.” His tie is tightened, his shirt smoothed across his shoulders and chest, and after a second of consideration, she reaches up and rakes his hair off his forehead. Her nails on his scalp make his skin tingle. “Sharp as a tack. How do you feel about dancing, anyhow?”

“I’m not very good at it.”

“Don’t worry.” She links elbows with him again, tugs him toward the river of people flowing inside. “I’ll teach you everything I know.”

“You’re going to teach me everything you know in a single night?”

“Why not?” Her teeth flash in the kaleidoscope of color and sound whirling around them. “We have all the time in the world.”

“Why not,” he echoes, and lets her pull him into the light.

 

George has never been the kind of man who dances. There wasn’t much time for music, growing up on the farm, and he lacks the unselfconscious commitment and freedom of movement necessary to be good at it, as well as the ability to enjoy pastimes where he’s less than perfect. Inside the Catalina, however, he _is_ going to be the sort of man who dances, even if only for an evening, and it comes as something of a relief to be rendered invisible. He’d wondered that morning if his suit was too much for a job interview, pale grey with a lavender tie, but here he’s a single, pallid drop in a sea of color. Men in tangerine suits swan by with women in lemon-butter dresses and feathers in their hair, while ladies in plum and peacock and scarlet ascend sweeping marble staircases, their escorts in navy and robin’s egg blue, and drink flutes of champagne with their bubblegum friends on the balconies, and up on the stage at the head of the ballroom, men in white suits with black lapels play ragtime swing for the churning sea of bodies on the polished floor. Nancy’s green and gold fits right in now that she’s checked his coat at the door, and she seems to know everybody; George is content to trail behind her while she flits about like a little hummingbird, iridescent, kissing cheeks and exchanging greetings. All he has to do is nod and shake hands and try not to fall over himself when she introduces him as her date, like he goes out with perfect strangers on a whim every night. Trumpets swell in the background.

“ – thirsty,” Nancy finishes as the song fades out, and rests her hand on his forearm. A new song begins, and the dance floor shifts, women twirling in the arms of their men, dipping and swaying to a slithery jazz melody. “Would you get us a couple glasses of bubbly, sugar? After that I’ll show you how to really cut a rug.”

 _Sugar._ He thinks about waltzing with her the way the people on the floor are waltzing, his thigh sliding between hers, her breasts pressing against his chest, and it makes him dizzy enough that he doesn’t trust himself to speak. He nods and stumbles off to go find the bar. Thankfully, he has enough cash for a drink apiece, and returns with a glass in each hand to find her chatting with two nearly-identical blondes, one in red and the other in deep blue.

“Oh, perfect. Thanks.” She relieves him of one, gestures to her friends. “George Weber, Martha and Dottie Calico. I was just telling them all about how you gallantly rescued me.”

“You didn’t tell us he was handsome, too,” Martha coos – or maybe it’s Dottie, he’s not sure which one is which. They’re both eyeing him in a way that makes the back of his neck itch, and he can’t quite tell if they’re making fun of him or not. The last person who called him handsome was his Aunt Ida. He takes a drink so he doesn’t have to say anything.

“Nancy _always_ has the best-looking dates,” the other sister confides, and switches her attention to Nancy with an exaggerated pout. “Save some for the rest of us, won’t you?”

“At least let us dance with this one before he goes.”

“Sorry girls,” Nancy says, and beckons George to follow, champagne in hand. “Dance card’s booked solid.”

“Oh, fine.”

“Have fun, Georgie.”

He looks over his shoulder as they go and catches the sisters whispering to each other behind their hands, blonde hair shimmering over their shoulders in identical waves. The look in their eyes is hungry, and he’s glad to let the crowd close in around him, blocking them from view. Nancy takes him up to one of the little alcoves on the second floor, where they can finish their champagne in peace and watch the dancers jitterbug to Benny Goodman. He finds himself tapping his toe by the time his glass is empty, and Nancy sets hers on the railing, hips starting to sway.

“Are you ready to learn how to dance?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

She holds out her hand. He takes it. Her skin is soft, her grip surprisingly strong. He lets her lead him down the stairs, towed along by the undercurrent of her perfume. The drums kick in, horns trumpeting as the bass pumps through the room, and the hall erupts into cheers as the veterans make way for a new crop of dancers.

“Just follow my lead,” Nancy says, and pulls him onto the floor.

It’s not so bad as he had feared, though it takes some getting used to, hemmed in on all sides with the polished floor slick beneath his soles. He watches the couple behind Nancy tear it up, shimmying and shaking until she directs his gaze back to her face, settling his free hand on her waist. “Listen, don’t worry about what everyone else is doing,” she says. “Don’t pay them any mind. Just focus on me.”

“Right,” he says. Focus on Nancy. He can do that. He concentrates on her face, her sea-glass eyes and soft, smiling mouth, and everything around them recedes like the tide. It gets easier after that. She leads him around the floor in time with the rest, showing him the basics – the foxtrot, the two-step, the spin – and by their second pass he’s eked out a half-decent lindy hop of his own. Nancy laughs as he twirls her, skirt flaring, then spins back in, near-weightless in his arms.

“See? Now you’re getting it. Dip me on the next one.”

He does, one hand on the small of her back and the other clasping hers tight, and the music dips too, into something sultry and longing. For a split second he’s afraid he’s going to drop her, but he doesn’t and then they’re upright again and her arm twines around his neck, their bodies flush. Her cheeks are pink. The lead musician wails on his sax in the background, the answering cry of the strings shimmering through the air, and she stands on tip-toe, lips to his ear.

“Now I’ll show you how to waltz.”

He’s never going to be a great dancer, but it doesn’t matter. Not when the prettiest girl he’s ever met is teaching him how, not when he gets to hold her in his arms. The music trickles over his skin, bubbles in his chest like champagne, and Nancy rests her head on his chest as the other couples waltz past in flurries of black and white and gold. He can feel her humming along.

“Sorry,” he says, and she blinks up at him. “I guess I’m no Fred Astaire.”

“Even Fred had to start somewhere.”

“Sure you wouldn’t rather have a more coordinated partner?”

“Oh, sugar,” Nancy says, and it comes out like a sigh. “Tonight, I don’t want to dance with anyone else but you.”

 

A swell of music carries the rest of the night away. George dances until his feet ache and the minute hand on his watch ticks insistently toward midnight, and then he dances some more, but the party shows no signs of dying. The ballroom is still packed by the time he and Nancy stagger for the front door, buffeted along by gales of laughter and jazz piano. They’re laughing too, at a joke one of them made that he can’t remember, leaning into each other as the valet hurries to open the doors, and the night air is so cool that it jolts the breath from his lungs. Nancy shivers, pressing close to his side.

“Some night tonight.”

“You’re sure you don’t want a ride home?” He doesn’t want to leave her, would dance in the Catalina until dawn if he could, but it’s nearing one in the morning and he’s fading fast. How she’s not exhausted is beyond him; he can’t imagine doing this almost every night. Nancy shakes her head.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that. Not after how kind you’ve already been tonight.”

“It’s really no trouble, if you – “

“No, no, I’ll just grab a taxi in a few. I’m going to have another drink first, catch up with some friends. You go on ahead.”

George nods, trying not to look too dejected, and removes his arm from her waist. He only means to start looking for his keys, but Nancy steps close and slides her arms around him, stretching up on tip-toe so she can brush her lips against the corner of his mouth. He freezes, and this time she kisses him squarely on the lips, slow and deliberate with her palms braced against his chest.

“Thanks for a swell evening, Mr. Weber,” she murmurs, and George’s heart splits open right then and there, bleeding all down his front and over her hands, ugly and wanting and utterly hers.

“Promise me I can see you again,” he says, urgent, and she melts into him with a whisper, _I promise, I promise_ on his tongue as he kisses her again and again, and then there’s nothing but Nancy after that, Nancy in the autumn chill, Nancy’s lips on his, Nancy’s cold hands on his heart in the light of the harvest moon.

 

He’d forgotten his coat.

Why this thought, of all thoughts, is the one to wake him up from a dead sleep, he can’t say. All he knows is that he’s out one moment and bolt upright the next, goosebumps rippling across his bare torso and the blankets tangled around his legs. A breeze nips in through the open window. That’s right, he remembers now – they’d checked his coat with the desk at the Catalina, and he’d forgotten to pick it up before he left. Well, no matter. He could go back and retrieve it later that day. He’s fed his fish and made coffee before it occurs to him that he also left without Nancy’s contact information. At least, he thinks he did. He’d only had one drink, but his recollection of the night’s events is oddly fuzzy, like a reflection on a pond’s surface. He barely remembers driving home. An honest mistake, he assures himself, ignoring the sinking feeling in his gut. They’d both been preoccupied. It didn’t mean anything. Unless…

Unless.

Nancy had been the one to check the coat, but she hadn’t reminded him to pick it up before he left. Perhaps she hadn’t forgotten after all, and he was meant to come see her again. It’s already well into morning, and he spends the afternoon cleaning his apartment while Billie Holiday croons from the stereo speakers, watching the clock out of the corner of his eye. He still has his suit from his cousin’s wedding the previous year. Not the most fashionable piece of clothing to ever exist, but it’s better than nothing. When evening falls, he puts it on and goes down to the parking garage to retrieve his car, whistling all the while. Nancy’s wrap is still there, crumpled on the dash. Maybe she left that on purpose, too. George folds it up and sets it on the passenger seat, resisting the urge to press it to his face. It still smells like perfume.

It’s another beautiful evening, crisp and sweet as a fresh orchard apple. He follows the directions he’d pulled up on his phone before leaving, all the way back to the heart of the city. Parking is scarce, so he finds a spot a couple blocks down and walks the rest of the way, hands crammed into his pockets. He’s so preoccupied looking for those soaring lights that he almost misses it.

CATALINA BALLROOM, the burnt-out letters above the marquee proclaim, but it can’t be the same Catalina. This dance hall hasn’t been touched in years, its brick façade crumbling and windows shuttered, its doors boarded up with graffiti-riddled plywood. There isn’t a trace of life left in it. He walks to the end of the block, then back again. Punches in the address a second time, double-checks online for a second Catalina Ballroom. The map helpfully informs him that he has reached his destination. He shuts his phone off. It can’t be right. It _can’t_. There’s no possible way this is the same place that made his mouth fall open in awe. He’d been inside. He checked his coat, he bought champagne, he met her friends. He’d danced with Nancy and kissed her right underneath the marquee. Last night the name of the band had been plastered up above them. Now, there’s nothing at all. He stands in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at the blank screen in his hand until feedback from a megaphone splits the air.

There’s a group of people headed his way, lead by a young woman in an oversized sweatshirt and black jeans, her springy ponytail pulled through the back of her cap and a megaphone in hand. He can’t quite make out what she’s saying, but even from where he’s standing he can see that everyone’s shirt matches – black, with a pair of ghostly hands printed in the center. Some kind of haunted tour, most likely. Those are popular in the fall. He steps out of the way as they all come marching past, and the tour guide halts a few feet away, stopping her group in front of the doors.

“Now for the next stop on our tour, I’ve brought you to the Catalina Ballroom,” she announces, and despite himself, George hesitates. “Has anybody heard the story of the O’Connell murder?”

The group murmurs, and a couple of the older members nod, but most shake their heads. O’Connell is Nancy’s last name. George’s hand is starting to hurt where the phone case is digging into it, holding it so tight his knuckles feel like they’re going to split the skin, but he can’t seem to let go. He can’t seem to do anything at all. The tour guide motions above them, to the marquee.

“This place was a well-known dance hall in the twenties and thirties. Probably the most infamous, too, since it was one of the only unsegregated dance halls in the city. Philip Monteith, the owner, went on record saying that he didn’t care who came to his ballroom, as long as you could dance. But then, in 1946, there was a highly-publicized double murder, and the Catalina was forced to shut its doors during the investigation. Monteith couldn’t afford to reopen, so it’s been closed ever since.” Her megaphone sputters, and she whacks the side before continuing. “According to public record, a woman named Nancy O’Connell got into an argument with her date that evening, a man named Julian Fletcher, just before they were due to arrive at the Catalina. Multiple eye-witnesses had seen them arguing outside on a previous occasion. He took off and left her, so she hitched a ride the rest of the way and went dancing with a gentleman friend. Apparently, Julian came back and saw her dancing with another man, so he waited until they left for the night and shot them both. Authorities – “

“No,” George says, loudly, and twelve heads swivel in unison, all eyes locked onto him. He’s almost as startled as they are. The tour guide blinks, smiling tentatively.

“Sorry?”

“No,” he says, because he can’t seem to stop the word from coming out, bigger and louder and more frantic each time. “No, that’s not – her name’s not Nancy.”

Everyone exchanges glances. The guide’s smile doesn’t waver, but her eyes are starting to show white around the edges, like a startled horse. “Sir, is there some kind of problem?”

“You’re wrong, her name’s not Nancy. It can’t be Nancy,” he says, desperate to make her understand. “Because if her name is Nancy, then she’s – “

“Who?” More murmuring. “Sir, are you – “

He bolts. It doesn’t matter that he’s wearing baggy slacks or cheap shoes that pinch his toes or that he still doesn’t have his favorite coat. What matters is getting the hell away from the Catalina, and he sprints the entire length of two and a half city blocks, until it’s far, far behind him. He slows as his car comes into view, lungs burning, chest heaving. He wants to keep running, but he has nowhere else to go. He stumbles forward, slumps against the passenger side door, metal freezing against his palms. _Stupid._ It’s just some stupid, phony haunted tour, designed to separate people from their money. There’s no way the guide knows what she’s talking about. Urban legends don’t mean anything, the girl’s name probably wasn’t even Nancy originally –

The wrap, he remembers in a flash of panicked inspiration. He has an item of clothing she left behind in his car, one he’d touched not even thirty minutes ago. Indisputable proof last night had happened. There’s no lock on the passenger side, so he scrambles around to the driver’s side and shoves the key in the door, throwing it open. His triumphant breath dies, trapped between his teeth.

His coat is on the seat where her wrap had been, neatly folded and pressed. On the passenger side window, there’s a note scrawled in lipstick – a note that hadn’t been there only seconds ago, signed and sealed with a deep red kiss.

_Be seeing you again real soon, I promise._

_Love, Nancy_

**Author's Note:**

> The Catalina is a nod to The Aragon in Chicago, which is of course a nod to the location of Resurrection Mary. Thanks for the fun prompt, and happy Original Works Exchange!


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